


Can You Lie (Confess Your Love)

by Mercurie



Category: Robin Hood (TV)
Genre: Angst, Community: gxm_secretsanta, F/M, Kissing, Unrequited Love, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-08
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 05:35:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mercurie/pseuds/Mercurie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Guy notices that Marian suffers a lot of suspicious injuries, she needs a cover story that will keep him on her side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can You Lie (Confess Your Love)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Guy/Marian Secret Santa Exchange 2011. Prompt: "White Blank Page" by Mumford and Sons.

_And can you lie next to her  
And confess your love, your love  
As well as your folly - "White Blank Page," Mumford & Sons_

Marian has studied Guy of Gisborne so assiduously that she knows his face better than her own. The day he catches sight of the series of marks on her forearm and realization finally dawns, she knows what he's thinking almost before he does. He grips her by the wrist and stares, and it's a slow, slow change in his expression, slow enough for her to see how hard he struggles against it. _Bruises. Marks left by rough fingers._ Without a word, he releases her, spins on his heel, and stalks off, not looking back once.

He doesn't mention it for the longest time.

***

It's not that she's careless. She infinitely prefers stealth to confrontation; not so much because she's afraid of getting hurt as because she's afraid of discovery. Once they've got her, she'll be helpless. (If. If they get her.) Being trapped in a dungeon, she assumes, can only be vastly worse than being trapped in a castle. Not to mention she's none too sure about her ability to withstand interrogation and torture, and has no illusions that the Sheriff would spare her, lady or no. So she's as careful as careful can be. Still, the castle is so heavily guarded these days that even the Night Watchman can't always avoid all the men-at-arms. Sometimes she has to fight, and it's become impossible to escape unscathed. Every excursion rewards her with a new collection of minor injuries.

Her first instinct after Guy discovers the bruises is to flee. This is it: her cover's blown. She can't spy on anyone if she's dead, so there's no point in staying. If Guy feels too conflicted to report her to the Sheriff immediately, so much the better—it'll give her time. A little time is all she needs. It's not as if she hasn't made her way to the forest alone before.

But suddenly it's impossible to find any way to slip out. There are more guards about, some she's never seen before, and Vaisey seems to have found an endless list of social occasions he insists that she attend. It's a week before she feels confident (and desperate) enough to vanish behind the mask and cloak of the Night Watchman. The moon is unfortunately full and bright, but she might not have another chance.

She doesn't even make it out of the castle. A troop of four almost runs straight into her at the rear postern. She fights madly in the midst of hue and cry, taking a mailed fist to the jaw, a slice of a dagger through her cloak. There's no way out, so she runs back, back into the depths of the castle. If she can make it to her room without meeting anyone—

The halls are still empty, but she can hear shouting too close for comfort. She pauses in an alcove and peels off the incriminating clothing, dropping it out the next window into a rain barrel. That leaves her in boy's trousers and a thin shift, which is only slightly better. At least anyone who sees her will think she's a tart instead of a traitor.

But by some miracle, she makes it back to her chamber without encountering a single person. The relief is so powerful that she doesn't even notice the door's unlocked until she's inside.

"Marian," Guy of Gisborne says from the shadows.

***

She freezes. She can't see him; the moonlight is falling on her, not him. With barely a thought, she composes her face. It's a skill she's practised for hours on end in front of mirrors: the art of appearing unruffled, stoic, revealing nothing. Presenting a blank page for others to project on. It's probably kept her safer than anything else. Behind the cool mask, her brain careens to come up with answers, explanations, excuses.

But no accusations fly. In two quick steps Guy is at her side and his hands slide to cradle her chin, turning her face toward the light. She stops breathing, transfixed by the rage on his face.

" _Who_?" he snarls.

She stares back in confusion. Her hands fly to his wrists, but she's not sure if she wants to push him away or hold on. A wave of light-headedness washes over her and she feels her knees wobble, hears Guy's gasp.

"Marian! Where else are you injured?"

She isn't, is she? But the room is spinning and spinning in the silver moonlight. There's a sudden lurch, and she closes her eyes. When she opens them again, she's on the bed and Guy's hand is on her chest, over her heart. The neckline of her shift is torn there, she realizes, and it hurts beneath. One of the daggers must have reached her after all. She'd been too busy running to notice and her hair had hidden it.

She looks up at Guy. He pulls his hand away and buries it in the bed cover next to her head, making a fist. Blood on her fine bedspread.

"Tell me who did this," he says, not a question.

And in the middle of confusion and pain and fear-tinged exhaustion, she has an inkling. She's gotten it all wrong; he doesn't know she's the Night Watchman after all. Something entirely different has been eating away at him. So she tells the best lie she knows: the truth.

"Guards," she whispers.

His face darkens, but he doesn't look surprised. "You should have told me," he breathes. "Why didn't you tell me? I could've stopped it, I can protect you—"

The important thing has never been to convince him she loves him. The important thing is to convince him he's not worthy. That's what makes him keep trying. Sometimes Marian thinks she knows Guy of Gisborne better than she knows herself.

"My father," she says, "You couldn't protect him."

She closes her eyes so she doesn't have to see him recoil.

***

He bandages the cut himself in the gray light of early morning. "We can't trust anyone," he says, "No physicians, no guards, no Allan."

"No Sheriff."

"No Sheriff," he agrees without hesitation. There's a familiar determined set to his jaw. She's implied that he can't protect her; now he has to prove her wrong. She knows there's a part of him whispering that if he can do it, if he can make things right, protect her this time, save her, then she'll finally have to give in and admit she loves him. Another part of him is angry enough to kill. He's not very good at hiding his feelings, is Guy of Gisborne.

When he's finished, she takes his hand. He looks at her with his troubled eyes, not quite trusting her, but wanting to so badly. "I'm sorry," she says. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I thought—it started weeks ago. Before my father..." She swallows her grief, recognizes the guilt in his eyes. "Before then. They started finding excuses to—make life difficult for me. Hurt me, sometimes. Sir Guy, it can't be anyone but Vaisey giving those orders. No one would dare touch me if he didn't condone it. I think he was hoping to provoke me into trying to run away, so he'd have an excuse to execute me after I was caught. I'm sure he had my father killed, Guy, I just _know_ it."

"Is that what you were doing? Trying to run away?"

The best lie is but a half-step from the truth. "Yes. Last night. They caught me at the postern, but I got away."

Guy paces, running a hand through his hair. "You could've been _killed_. They might have not bothered with a hanging and just put an end to it right there."

"I couldn't just do nothing and let them toy with me!"

"You could've asked me for help. I knew something was wrong—I saw those bruises on your arm. My own men have been out, watching, but they never see anything." That explains the extra security, Marian thinks, it's Guy's idea of protection. The irony makes her want to laugh.

Guy's voice rises and he makes a visible effort to control himself. "Why didn't you tell me, Marian? Whatever has passed between us, you can't really think I'd simply let you be beaten by the Sheriff's guards!"

There's a glimmer of light in Marian's mind to match the first sparks of sunlight scattering from her window. An opportunity to plant an idea. If he thinks the danger is serious, perhaps he'll help her escape himself.

"I never thought that of you," she says softly. It doesn't take much acting to look vulnerable. "But Guy... he wants me dead. And if I stay here, he'll have his way. Do you really think you can stop him? When does he ever listen to you?" She shakes her head and finishes in a rush. "It would only have made him suspicious of you as well and I'm sick of everyone around me dying. I had to act on my own."

Emotions war on Guy's face. "You were thinking of me?" he says.

"It happens," she says with a rueful smile, "sometimes."

And that, too, is not a lie.

***

Guy watches her ceaselessly after that. Of course, he has too many duties as Vaisey's second-in-command to do it personally, hour after hour. When Guy is busy there's Allan and a handful of guards she guesses must be hand-picked. The others don't disappear, but she knows Guy's men are watching the Sheriff's, ready to report anything untoward. Guy himself spends as much time as he can by her side, or at least within view, eyes following her with an intensity that makes her shiver.

He's a terrible dissembler. Any man who comes too close to her gets an icy stare. He's suspicious of every potential slight, every imagined veiled threat. He guards her as jealously as a hawk does its nest. His possessiveness must be apparent to anyone with eyes; she's sure Vaisey has noticed. But the Sheriff, apparently, does nothing. Perhaps he thinks the heightened scrutiny will pry the secrets he believes she conceals out of her at last. As the days pass, she starts to fear he might be right. She can feel Guy circling her, closer and closer every day, light touches on her skin, smiles breaking through his habitual frown, small jokes to brighten her day. He's coming to know her as well as she knows him. He's already learned that she's stronger than she looks, more opinionated, that she sometimes wears men's clothing. The more time he spends with her, the more fascinated he seems.

Her cage is tighter than ever. Sometimes it feels like her world is shrinking to encompass nothing but Guy of Gisborne. She can't get any messages out without him noticing, and Robin and his men seem to have vanished, or at least can't get close. Weeks pass as she waits in vain for a rescue. She tries to keep thinking of Robin, but it's impossible with Guy constantly stalking beside her, lean and dark and hungry like some huge black wolf. She's not afraid—he's too familiar a presence by now—but she chafes, trapped in a net at least partially of her own making. Guy keeps a closer watch on her than guards ever could.

And the worst part is, she can't help being a little impressed. He's gone to so much effort to, he thinks, keep her safe. From Vaisey, a man he once obeyed without question and whom she knows he fears. The lies she's told him begin to weigh on her more every day, and she wakes in the mornings with the taste of guilt in her mouth. And then she shakes herself mentally: why should she feel guilty when he's the one with all the power? He's the one holding her captive. If only he knew it.

It's all becoming quite intolerable. She's on edge every second, watching desperately for the first opportunity to escape.

***

"You're irritable," Guy says.

He's sitting at the table in her room, long legs stretched out in front of him, watching her pace. He's right; her skin feels too small and she's bursting with nervous energy. She's keenly aware of his presence in the small space, like a furnace blasting suppressed desire. It makes her want a cold swim.

"I am so tired of this castle," she says, calm on the outside.

"I don't understand you, Marian. Life in a nunnery wouldn't offer more freedom than this." That's what she'd told him, of course, that she'd planned to run away and take vows. Where else would an orphaned young woman of high birth go?

"At least I'd be away from—"

"Me?"

"No! That's _not_ what I was going to say." The assumption makes her irrationally angry. "Away from the Sheriff, away from the guards and the watching and the waiting. I'd be safe from that, at least, in a convent."

"The Sheriff would still be able to reach you, if he wished. And there you wouldn't have me to protect you."

That's always his excuse. He'd never relinquish her to a life of chastity, not when he has her so conveniently under his eye. She wants to shout at him, tell him to stop _looking_ so much. She's afraid he's starting to see through her. It's becoming increasingly difficult to keep her mask of calm, to answer softly and sweetly as if there's no turmoil inside her. And she's beginning to feel—and she's terrified he'll realize—that it's not the house arrest or the death of her father or even the danger that's driving her to distraction. It's Guy of Gisborne himself, filling all the empty spaces in her life, the angry, patient hunger in his eyes making her cheeks burn whenever their gazes meet.

She can feel those eyes on her back as she looks out her window at the darkening sky. The window frame is cool under her hand; she wants to rest her feverish head against it.

"Marian?"

The words won't stay in. "I don't want you to protect me," she says in a low voice. "You're just as dangerous as he is."

She hears his step, feels him come close. "You know you have nothing to fear from me." But he doesn't sound hurt in the least, he sounds breathless, his voice rough with feeling, and she knows he's understood the true meaning of her words. Embarrassment makes her angrier.

"Stop it," she says to the window. "Stop it, stop it, _stop_ it." She turns abruptly. His eyes find hers and his lips part slightly. "I don't love you," she says. "I don't." She repeats it fiercely, trying to make up for the fact that he must have seen her gaze flick to his mouth and the flush rising on her neck.

The corner of his lip curls up and he takes her hands, fingers resting lightly on the soft underside of her wrists. She wonders if he can feel her pulse racing. He's much too close and she feels much too warm.

"I _know_ you feel something for me," he says. "I can see it on your face. Right now."

"It's not love," she says defiantly. It's the best denial she can come up with.

"Then tell me, Marian," he says, leaning in to whisper into her ear, "what is it?" His breath tickles her neck and she shivers, hands tightening convulsively around his. His lips ghost along her jaw and her head tilts back automatically. "Is this what you need protection from?"

"Yes," she says, "yes, you, protection from you, Guy. You work for the Sheriff, you _kill_ innocent people, you're ruthless and cruel, you burnt down my house, you stood by and did _nothing_ while my father was murdered. _I don't want to want you._ "

But even as she says it, she kisses him, not gently like she's kissed Robin, but bitterly, a clash of teeth and lips. She buries her hands in his hair, fingers tangling and clutching. She hopes it hurts. It must do, or perhaps it's her words that pain him, because he responds just as ferociously, pushing her back against the window frame, tongue delving into her mouth. His arms encircle her waist like iron bands, pulling her flush against his body. She can feel the tightly coiled desire he's never bothered to hide vibrating through his every muscle. Something inside her responds and she tears her mouth away, gasping.

"Guy—"

"Marian," he says raggedly. "I've been waiting to—"

Marian shrieks as glass shatters around them. Thousands of brilliant shards flame red in the sunset, filling the room like a bloody rain. Through the noise and the shock she hears a familiar whistle of air, and immediately Guy grunts in pain. Quick as thought, there's an arrow in his shoulder. His eyes lock on hers and she sees her own horror reflected there. Then he slumps to his knees, to the glass-strewn floor. All the slivers are shining in the last light of the sun; he's covered with them and so is she, some of them are stuck in her flesh and she sees the blood and knows it will hurt in a moment.

She recognizes the fletching of the arrow. It's Robin's. This is her rescue at last.

When Robin comes in through the window, she's on her knees stanching the bleeding. The arrow's out and she's created a makeshift bandage from strips of her dress. Robin catches her arm and pulls her away gently and she doesn't resist, but she looks back. Guy's eyes are almost closed. She thinks she can see a glimmer below the lashes, as if his eyes too are made of glass.

She touches her bruised lips. It feels like she might shatter herself as they flee through the shadows of Nottingham.

***

An hour later, she's on horseback behind Robin and they're clear of danger. Her last image of Guy persists as if burned into her eyelids. He's not dead, she feels it in her heart. The arrow was meant to kill, but she'd pulled it out and bandaged the wound so quickly. And there are good physicians in Nottingham.

Guy is alive, and he'll follow her. After what she said, he'll scour the country to find her. A thrill of some unidentifiable emotion sparks in her stomach. She resists the urge to dig her heels into the horse's flanks and ride as far as it can take them.


End file.
